Leicester, a tale of modern times...

I met a man today in a jeweller's shop in Leicester. His father had been banished from Uganda by Idi Amin in the early seventies.

He told me his family settled in Leicester because Leicester City Council placed an advert in their national paper in Uganda telling Indians they were not welcome in Leicester, and that there was nothing for them there.

The jeweller told me that was why so many Indians expelled from Uganda decided to settle in Leicester. The city must have something worth hiding if the council were so keen to take out an advert in a foreign newspaper actively discouraging them.

"Is that true?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yes!" he laughed.

The jeweller's father, who gave his son his trade, arrived in Britain in 1972 with nothing but £50 in his pocket. He asked his wife to give him all the jewellery she owned so he could start a business. 

By the time he retired he had three jewellery shops on Leicester's so-called Golden Mile. The senior jeweller gave two of the shops to his brothers and the remaining shop to his son. The shop I was in had £600,000 worth of stock on display. They melt down gold in the tatty back office. The senior jeweller is still alive, as is his wife. She drives a Bentley. 

The jeweller's son told me how the trade has changed in recent years. When Leicester had a hosiery industry, the Indian factory girls would come in at the end of the week and buy tiny amounts of gold to wear (and as an investment) for £20 or £30 pounds a time. The owners of corner shops, usually frugal people, would occasionally give their daughters £2000 in the run up to Diwali and tell them to buy some jewellery for themselves.

The hosiery factories are long since closed, and the supermarkets have taken over the corner shops, sucking money out of the community.

The jeweller still sells, but is also often buying scrap gold, melting it down and trading it by the gramme. Since the recession began, the rising gold price has outstripped the stock market and the housing market to become more valuable than ever.

As a result most jewellers on the Golden Mile operate in shops protected by airlock doors, security cameras, smoke cannisters, bullet-proof glass, guard dogs and panic buttons. 

A couple of years ago gangs of masked robbers would regularly travel up (mainly from Birmingham) to attack the shops on the Golden Mile, charging in with axes and sledgehammers to break the glass cabinets.

"People are desperate" said the jeweller.

There haven't been any armed robberies so far this year. The police now regularly patrol the Golden Mile, the shop owners meet regularly to discuss security and the expensive new defences put in place appear to be holding.

"The police and council are taking an interest in our situation because we're the only businesses left round here paying any tax!" he jokes

He is a smartly-dressed man, and, as you might expect, wears a fair bit of gold on his fingers. 

When we part, he turns to deal with something in his shop, and I see how frayed the back of his suit is.

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Internet privacy and the government

There is no such thing as a private email. There never was. I don't understand how people see it any other way.

It's the same as writing a letter. Letters were always the formal expression of our thoughts, and because, when I was growing up, they repeatedly appeared in newspapers, books, court evidence and history I saw them as matters of public record.

You put your innermost feelings (or controversial opinions) down on paper and handed it over to someone else. You have just given it to the world.

Email speeded up the process. To me "send" has always meant "publish".

That's not to say there aren't many hundreds of emails I've sent that I would rather were only read by the initial recipient, but always at the back of my mind has been the knowledge that what I have written takes seconds to forward, or even upload.

It's the same with phone calls. Phone tapping has been around longer than I've been alive. Why do you think your conversation is secure? If it's that interesting, it might not be.

The real debate should be how we, as a society, deal with it, not whether it should be happening. The genie is out of the bottle. We are entering an age where privacy, as we know it, is dead. The rise of CCTV and social media takes this way beyond electronic communications.

You should assume that everything you are doing outside your own house is being watched and stored, as are the people you call up, and the websites you browse. You'd be stupid not to.

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Frank Skinner is very good

There must be a reason for putting your best presenters on the radio on a Saturday mid-morning. There's certainly a tradition of it in the UK. Jonathan Ross on Radio 2, Adam and Joe on BBC 6 Music, Danny Baker on 5live, and for the last 4 years, Frank Skinner on Absolute Radio.

I find it hard to listen to Frank live on Saturday mornings - I like to listen to BBC Surrey's Danny Pike on my way home from being his warm-up man, so I podcast Messrs Baker and Skinner to listen to in the gym.

I don't know why Frank doesn't get more industry attention for what he is doing with his show at the moment. It is the funniest thing on the radio by a long, long way. His love of wordplay, cultural awareness, quicksilver wit, encyclopaedic memory and deadpan erudition are perfectly suited to the medium. And despite making it sound completely off the cuff (which I suspect a good 80% of it is), you can tell he's often thought about where he wants to take something.

His sidekicks are posh Emily and Northern Alun. In this clip Emily helps build up the anecdote perfectly. (If you can't see the soundcloud widget below, this link will take you to it)




Note: the above audio obviously belongs to Absolute Radio and will be removed at their request.

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General Sir David Richards, Chief of Defence staff, message to all UK troops after Woolwich murder

The following message was posted to twitter by Steven Nightingale, a British Army Sergeant, earlier today. It is an internal message to all British Armed Forces personnel, sent by General Sir David Richards, Chief of Defence staff.

The reason I am posting it here is because the message was posted as a non-searchable screen-grab, and although I have searched for the statement in a more friendly format online I have yet to come across it.

I am indebted to the BBC's Alex Barnett and the Sunday Times' Toby Harnden for providing the tweet bridge to Sgt Nightingale's timeline.

Here it is as transcribed from the screen grabs attached to Sgt Nightingale's three tweets:

"The appalling murder of one of our number has left us all deeply saddened. For my own part, the death of any Service man or woman is a tragedy. It is for all of us the loss of a friend and comrade. But for the family, the loss is much greater, so it is of them I am primarily thinking today.

20 years ago British forces faced danger to defend the Muslims of Bosnia after the tragic massacres in Srebrenica. Today their successors are risking their lives to bring peace to the people of Afghanistan.

British soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen fight not for or self-interest but to protect people of every creed from those who would harm them. Many have been Muslims. That is why we are able to recruit so many good people into the forces and civilians who support them. Today’s Armed Forces is made up of men and women from every religion and culture of the UK. The ties that bind us are stronger than ever and I’m hugely proud of all those serving.

Your duty, courage and self-sacrifice stands in marked contrast to the murderous exhibitionism of crazed men representing no-one. Remain where we are, held in high esteem by the people we serve and do not get drawn into the politics of this incident.

Whilst taking sensible security precautions hold your head high and trust in the government, police and agencies to do the right thing by us, as I know they will."

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On the Mic - Surrey Life - May 2013

The June edition of Surrey Life is in shops now, featuring my latest column (on wanting to play Adam and the Ants on the radio) and a feature I wrote on Brooklands race track and museum. I'm quite proud of both. If you're interested, go straight down to your nearest Surrey newsagent and buy a copy. Or order one here, why not.

May's column (below) was also one of my better ones, so I hope you enjoy it. This one is on supermarkets, brought to you in glorious monochrome.

I love supermarkets. I know many have been flogging us drugged-up horse flesh from Romania. But I love ‘em. 

Repackaging my little pony as prime beefburger is not their only sin. I’m aware some farmers hate them, and the mere prospect of Tesco setting up shop in a Surrey village can turn the most fervent free-market evangelist into a quivering heap of nimbyfied indignation. But where else are you going to get lager and cashback at 11pm?

That’s not to say I don’t support independent retailers in principle and practice. Every Saturday morning on BBC Surrey Breakfast my regular guest is Pauline Hedges, a director of Surrey Farmers’ Markets. She, more than anyone, knows the value and joy that can be derived from enabling a hyper-local supply chain to flourish, and she gets a weekly platform to talk about it, on my show. 

But I do love supermarkets. I love the way the doors are almost always open. I love the twofer deals. I even like the trollies. They’re built much better than they used to be, don’t you think? 

Once wilful reminders of humanity’s inability to manufacture anything that does what it’s supposed to, the modern shopping trolley is now a highly-engineered thoroughbred, partnering us in a glorious retail tango as we traverse the smooth-as-marble performance space.

Most people use television to put their brains into a semi-comatose state. I go to Sainsbury’s. 

We need food, I need to relax. I talk for a living, and in a supermarket, you don’t need to talk, especially with the self-service tills. It’s just you, your little metal chariot and the products. Mmm... the products. The enticing packaging and the promise of so much that’s good and wholesome - or thick and indulgent - underneath. 

It’s not just me. In his novel White Noise Don DeLillo describes supermarkets (with their “dazzling hedgerows” of produce) as centres of “magic and dread”. When the arch lyricist Jarvis Cocker narrates a relationship in Pulp's 1995 hit Common People, he locates the first date in a supermarket. As an arty-farty graduate with a degree in post-structuralist literary theory, I remember thinking “well, of course.”

Aesthetically they are a disaster. Who in their right mind has ever said “oh what a pretty supermarket”? It somehow gets worse when they try squeezing local/metro/mini versions into old pubs. Once inside, we have to deal with strip lighting, freezing temperatures, odd smells (my wife won’t go in one supermarket because of the overwhelming stink of roast chicken that greets her at the door) and drab colour schemes. 

Then you have the pertinent arguments about food miles, the relationship supermarkets have with their suppliers, and their willingness to keep undercutting independents until local butchers, bakers and newsagents expire in little puffs of despair.

I could decide this is terrible, and that I should resolve to do my shopping in Walton-on-Thames high street without going to the nearby Aldi, Waitrose or Sainsbury’s. 

But I have to recognise I am what I am. A happy little supermarket consumer. And if that means I end up eating equine derivative from an unidentified east european abattoir, then I’m getting exactly what I deserve.

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April 2013 - on The Invasion of the Coffee Shops

March 2013 - There was NO column in March 2013...

February 2013 - on turning 40

January 2013 - why January should be about headaches, mild depression and whisky

December 2012 - on doing more stand up comedy

November 2012 - on stopping doing weekday breakfast

October 2012 - on trying to engage brain and mouth on air

September 2012 - on my BBC microphone

August 2012 - on the Olympics

July 2012 - on being on holiday with three small children

June 2012 - on joining a gym

May 2012 - on making live radio

April 2012 - on being ill

On being asked to write a column for Surrey Life magazine

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On the Mic - Surrey Life - April 2013

Harris and Hoole have been good to me. I produced a radio discussion about them on LBC. They were the subject of my first report on BBC Radio 2's Jeremy Vine Show. They made for a nice little blog post on here, which got a few hits, because for a while, if you googled Harris and Hoole, it was in the top 10 results. It also made for a column in Surrey Life's April issue, which I can now re-publish (with a few tweaks) here. Enjoy, perhaps, over coffee.

The county is under attack. Just as HG Wells’ nineteenth-century Martians scrutinised and studied decent invasion sites near Woking, twenty-first century Surrey is being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than our own. 

Stimulant-mongers. Corporate drug pushers. Coffee sellers.

As a recovering breakfast show presenter, my relationship with the bean is deeper and more complex than that of a ten year old boy with his first Panini football sticker collection. I know exactly how and when to deliver the precise amount of liquified granules to my system in order to ensure optimum performance and concentration levels at unholy hours of the day. 

But I know what I’m doing. I understand the risks. I’m a professional. What worries me is the creeping colonisation of our town centres by caffeinated drug dens, indiscriminately emptying their black gold into the veins of an unthinking populace.

At first coffee houses seem benign. Warm, welcoming and comfortable. But then more appear, and soon everyone is wandering about clutching giant cardboard beakers, yabbering incessantly with wide-eyed abandon. Enough is enough. Surrey is in the grip of an addiction. It’s time to to wake up and smell… er… no… hang on...

In my town, it's completely out of control. When I moved to Walton-on-Thames seven years ago, we had Starbucks, Caffe Nero and a couple of independents. Now we’ve also got a massive Costa, a Muffin Break (?!), three more independents and pretty much every pub and restaurant flogging the stuff. The local mini-Waitrose has even started selling takeaway cappuccinos, just in case anyone can’t finish their shopping and make it to the nearest dispensary without grabbing one for the road. 

Which brings us to the Tesco-funded Harris and Hoole. With a name like that on the shop-fitter’s boards I guessed, before it opened, a new chain of ambulance-chasing high street solicitors would be alighting in Walton. 

Then - bang! - without warning, another retail space full of comfy seats, intoxicating, steamy smells and funky but unobtrusive tunes appeared.

Excitingly, it’s from within this controversial new set-up your intrepid reporter is communicating with you now. I’m in the belly of the barista!

Like its competitors, Harris and Hoole make buying your drink a challenge. I asked for a medium-sized strong-ish coffee with hot milk. I swear this is the conversation that followed, verbatim:

“Filter?”

“No, freshly brewed.”

“Our filter is freshly brewed.”

“Well I don’t want filter. I want it made through the machine - an Americano with hot milk.”

“Ah yes! An Americano. Well, actually it’s not an Americano here, it’s a Long Black.”

“A Long Black then.”

“What size would you like?”

“Medium.” [I already said that]

“And do you want the hot milk in it or on the side?”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you have a loyalty card?”

“Yes please”

“No - do you have one?”

“No.”

“Do you want one?”

“Is this a test?”

Even after paying I wasn’t allowed my coffee. I was given a black plastic slab with red lights on and told not to return until the lights started flashing, which they did as soon as I sat down.

Don’t get me wrong. I quite like Harris and Hoole. All bare brick, wooden floors, free wifi and friendly smiles. I was going to mention I don’t really rate their coffee, but having hinted as much a couple of minutes ago to the lady clearing my table she has insisted I try two other different coffees for free. As a result I’m completely off my nut, unable to coherently enunciate my own name, let alone decide whether I’m ever coming back. 

Maybe a county full of coffee shops isn’t a bad thing. It used to be estate agents, and it’s impossible to have a nice sit down in one of those without someone trying to sell you a house. 

You can’t help  wonder how we survived perfectly well before this bizarre mania got hold of us. But they said that about dishwashers, tablet computing devices and Mr Whippy ice-cream. The modern world is exhausting. But at least there are plenty of places round here for a pick me up.

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March 2013 - There was NO column in March 2013...

February 2013 - on turning 40

January 2013 - why January should be about headaches, mild depression and whisky

December 2012 - on doing more stand up comedy

November 2012 - on stopping doing weekday breakfast

October 2012 - on trying to engage brain and mouth on air

September 2012 - on my BBC microphone

August 2012 - on the Olympics

July 2012 - on being on holiday with three small children

June 2012 - on joining a gym

May 2012 - on making live radio

April 2012 - on being ill

On being asked to write a column for Surrey Life magazine

On the Mic - Surrey Life - Feb 2013

On turning 40, in February.

It’s my 40th this month. February 7th to be precise. A birthday I share with Charles Dickens and Jimi Somerville. Woo.

It has to be better than my 39th. Despite feeling unwell the day before, I decided it wasn’t anything I couldn’t cope with and my breakfast show on BBC Surrey would be fine. Whatever was trying it on with my immune system had other ideas. 

I woke sweating and delirious. Trying to string a coherent sentence together at 6am when you’re running a temperature and dripping snot on your equipment is not a good look.

So fingers crossed, this time round, I won’t be ill. I also won’t be on air, as my birthday doesn’t fall on a Saturday. 

I suspect I shall have a party. Mrs Wallis turned 40 in September. We put a marquee in the back garden, got some caterers in and really went to town. It nearly killed us. For five hours it was the best fun we’ve had in years - it was the five hundred hours of preparation that left us wondering if we’d made the right decision. 

Still, if you don’t mark it properly, what are you going to do? Wait until you’re 50?

I think 40 is a significant age for so many people because you become aware how fast the clock is ticking. You look at what you have and what you’ve achieved. You also start to worry how you are going to finish off. Poor? Miserable? Happy? Rich?

Up to now, I’ve been lucky. I’ve been able to do what I want and get paid reasonably well for it. I suspect that is about to change. The rewards at the top of the game for broadcasters and journalists can still be huge, but that tapers away quickly. 

It’s possible to make a living, but in recent years pay has remained static, and as we all know, the cost of everything has shot up. When you throw in very little in the way of job security, you start to wonder if you’re doing the best by your family.

I met up with an old friend the other day. We were in a (terrible) band together when we were 18. Like me, he’s now got three kids. In an alternative universe (where we had been blessed with any talent whatsoever) we’d have met up to drink champagne in one of Surrey’s best restaurants and plan our next world tour. 

Instead we nursed a few cheap bitters before he made his way back up north to be with his family. He looked tired and - may he forgive me - old. I suspect I looked the same to him.

But amid the constant drudgery of childcare there are moments. Having responsibility for three beautiful little ones can provide some of the most meaningful experiences life has to offer. And there’s fun to be had away from the joys of bringing up a family, as the monthly pub meetings of the Walton-on-Thames Knackered Dads Society will attest.

There are worse places to turn a significant age than with your family and friends in the best county in the best country in the world. All I can hope is that I’m still contemplating a knees up and few drinks in 40 years time. 

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April's edition of Surrey Life is on sale now for £3.25.

Previous columns:

January 2012 - why January should be about headaches, mild depression and whisky

December 2012 - on doing more stand up comedy

November 2012 - on stopping doing weekday breakfast

October 2012 - on trying to engage brain and mouth on air

September 2012 - on my BBC microphone

August 2012 - on the Olympics

July 2012 - on being on holiday with three small children

June 2012 - on joining a gym

May 2012 - on making live radio

April 2012 - on being ill

How I got to write a column for Surrey Life magazine

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